


Isolation

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 10,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3950623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, post S2 E22, angst, romance. Insert standard non-ownership statement here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Until

Liz waits until they're in the back of the cargo plane and airborne, in relative privacy. The pile of rolled rugs is comfortable enough, and certainly better than the various crates and trunks piled and strapped down around them.

There's one other passenger, but his coffin is on the far side of the plane.

"Why didn't Dembe come with us?" she asks Red in a low voice. The pilot is wearing headphones, and hasn't addressed them even once since coming on board. He didn't even turn around to look at them.

Red purses his lips. He looks so weary. Liz slept for hours with her head pillowed on his shoulder, and she still feels ragged.

"He needs to complete some specific tasks for me," Red responds.

That's a half-answer, but much more than Red usually gives her. Unless fleeing together with both the cabal and the full force of the US government in hot pursuit of them has somehow made Red unusually talkative, that was a deflection.

"What tasks?"

"You stayed with Tom on his boat last night, didn't you?"

Liz feels herself blushing, even though Red's tone and words are perfectly neutral, not insinuating anything.

He raises his eyebrows. The corner of his mouth twitches, in either amusement or distaste. She can't be certain.

"Yes."

She can do monosyllabic as well as he can, if need be. If she were sitting alone with a close girlfriend and a bottle of wine, Liz might try to explain her behavior with Tom, make sense of it for herself as well as her listener, but this is Red.

He doesn't even know how hard Liz struggles to try and think of Tom as 'Jacob.' Perhaps because she isn't quite sure that name is real, and not another lie. 

"That won't be possible again for at least six months, perhaps longer." Red sounds grim.

Now it's her turn to raise her eyebrows.

"He's probably at sea by now ..." she begins. She's not about to explain how much she regrets what happened. Tom didn't even attempt to kiss her goodbye.

"Lizzie, the cabal has control of a targeted virus. You and I cannot, absolutely can ... not ... risk touching anyone. Anyone. Not until we have either a vaccine, or a virtually instant test."

She can feel her eyes widen in dismay.

"Red, you kissed Dembe on the cheek."

Although that was many hours ago. 

"He was never out of my sight," Red assures her. "That's why he stayed behind. To set up a virology lab with Mr. Kaplan."

Liz shakes her head, trying to make sense of this new threat. How can Red sit there so calmly?

"How are you going to do business like that?" she asks him. Red is always touching people, not just shaking hands, but patting them, hugging them, kissing them.

He shrugs, then gives her an unusually sweet little smile.

"I suppose I'll have to take a little break from crime. Let Dembe and the rest of my team run things for a while."

Liz looks down at her hands, clasped in her lap. That smile. Red can certainly infuriate her, but sometimes he makes her want to cry for him, too.

As if he can't believe she cares about him, is concerned for his interests. As if kind words surprise him.

He once thanked her for being honest with him.

"Red, I know this is going to be hard for you," she says, looking up to find him gazing at her without expression, nothing but patience coupled with exhaustion on display now.

Daringly, she reaches over and takes his hand.

Red clears his throat.

"Lizzie, you have no idea," he murmurs.


	2. Switzerland

"When you said we were going somewhere remote, I didn't know you meant Switzerland."

Liz stares out the kitchen window at the amazing alpine scene, then over her shoulder at the larger window in the small living room opposite, which displays similar snow-capped peaks.

The small chalet is remote, buried high in the mountains behind a larger home protected by gates and dogs and faceless guards in infection control masks.

Their host is a famous Japanese actor, now retired in luxury. Red has assured him that he and Liz will remain out of sight, preparing and eating their meals from the boxes of food that will be left at their front door weekly by his staff.

The actor has a terrible fear of germs.

Red and Liz arrived in masks and clean room suits, and were whisked at once to their new home.

Two bedrooms upstairs beneath the peaked roof, but only one bath.

A very small space for a stay of months. Especially since most of the books and periodicals in the living room seem to be in French.

"This is as safe as it gets," Red responds, strolling into the kitchen and beginning to open all the cabinets, one at a time. "I've never stayed here before, and this place isn't in Donald's files on me."

"How do you know what's in Ressler's files?" Liz asks him with a frown. She doesn't even know - the files fill numerous boxes, and her time at the Post Office didn't allow for as much research into Red's past as she would have liked.

He gives her a rather smug smile, and she can feel her heart beat a little faster. Red has changed from his customary suit into a long sleeved, collarless black knit shirt and loose black jeans. 

"Lizzie, it's been my business to know the details of any possible threat to my life or freedom for a very long time."

She giggles as he opens yet another cupboard and frowns in exaggerated dismay at the contents.

"The wine glasses are in the cupboard in the dining room," she tells him.

Red favors her with a broad smile and brushes past her, giving her elbow a brief squeeze of thanks.

It's early afternoon, but she knows wine is served at both lunch and dinner in most parts of Europe.

Hopefully they won't both devolve into alcoholics.

"Here you go, Lizzie."

Red passes her a glass of dark, almost inky wine.

"This really needs to breathe, but just take a whiff now, for comparison purposes." 

Despite what he's just said, Red is rolling a taste of the wine around in his mouth.

Obediently, Liz bends her head and takes a sniff.

"Uh, ick?"

Red swallows his wine and laughs, lifting his glass in toast but not taking a sip.

"Not quite the right term, but yes, sadly."

He turns away.

"I'll open another bottle," he calls back over his shoulder.

Liz sets her glass down with a sigh. Wine tasting. She likes wine, but just to drink. Not to discuss like the details of a crime.

But if Red wants to teach her, if he thinks there's some value in this, she might as well try to learn. 

If she starts arguing with him now, it's going to be a long six months. Or whatever.


	3. Late Night Reverie

Red lies naked in bed, eyes closed, listening to the water splashing next door as Liz bathes.

It's only been three days, and he can't imagine surviving three weeks of this, let alone three months.

So prickly at work, she's such a joy to be with when she's relaxed and at home. Liz dresses in tight knits that outline her body, giggles at his jokes, gives him affectionate little touches that almost undo him.

She's so completely lacking in domestic instincts as to be a constant source of amusement to Red. She doesn't know how to cook, or to clean. Her dismay at the prospect of using the small washer/dryer, with all its many settings in French and German, prompted him to start attempting to teach her French.

She's a quick study, but the way Liz stares at his lips before repeating each new word is slowly driving Red insane.

He thought he wanted her before.

The only valid comparison is the summer he was fourteen, when he was in love with Maryanne Welch from two blocks over and one block down, and he couldn't even ride his bike near her street.

He's ready for Liz all the time, so ready he aches deep inside his body, as painful at times as a cramp.

Lying here in his bed, behind a locked door, he doesn't know if the touch of his own hand is making it better or worse.

For years he tried to hold himself back, allowed himself to feel desire only when accompanied by some material advantage. Sex can be a powerful bond, even among criminals, breaking down resistance and engendering cooperation.

But there's nothing tangible he needs from Liz that she won't already give him. He has saved her life, whisked her out of the country, and she now realizes that since childhood he has tried to protect her from her sins. 

Red is beyond relieved that she hasn't yet thought to ask why he used the plural.

He wants her in all the usual ways a man wants the woman he loves, but even more, Red wants to erase the memory of Tom from her life, to show Liz how she deserves to be treated. To touch and kiss her, even if she never reciprocates.

Not that he's likely to ever be offered that chance.


	4. Dinner

"If you don't like it, don't eat it."

Liz flushes in embarrassment.

Red has prepared a fancy chicken dish, layers of spices and vegetables baked together with chicken he had to remove from the bone.

The chickens they receive in the basket are whole, as are the fish.

The first time Liz unwrapped a bundle in the kitchen, she almost shrieked at the sight of all those eyes staring up at her.

"What's wrong, Lizzie?"

Red was squatting at a lower cabinet, storing potatoes and onions in a blue plastic basket.

Holding the bundle with both hands, Liz waved the fish in his general direction.

"They looked at me funny," she explained. "See?"

Red just stared up at her, such a curious expression on his face.

Much like the way he's staring at her now. As if he really doesn't know what to say to her at all.

"You went to so much trouble," she begins.

"Lizzie."

Red sets down both his fork and his knife. Since they arrived in Europe, he's been eating with his knife in one hand and his fork in the other, as if unconsciously switching from American table manners to local customs is no different from breathing.

Liz likes cinnamon in breakfast dishes, in desserts. Just not in savory food.

Her mouth falls open in astonishment as Red lifts her plate across the table, then sets it down atop his own empty plate and picks up her fork.

"Eat some more salad," he advises her. "You loved that, didn't you?"

Yes, she did. 

And also, she loves how Red respects her unwillingness to waste food. Those difficult years with Sam, when she was little, have marked her. She'd rather not eat than prepare or purchase too much food.

Liz serves herself more salad, watches Red finishing off her chicken with apparent pleasure. There's something shockingly intimate about the way his tongue licks at her fork.

It's been three weeks, and she's pretty much losing her mind.


	5. Dessert

"Go pick a book and get comfortable," Red advises Liz. "I'll be in with dessert in a little bit."

Liz builds a fire every evening, then Red reads to her from one of several novels, based on her mood. He reads each sentence in French, then translates it into English. They seldom make it through a chapter before lapsing into conversation.

Sometimes he plays chess with her, or cards. But he always wins, which leads to early nights and him lying in bed, listening to her in the bath.

Red is more confident of his ability to control his reactions around her, now. The worst is the first sight of her each morning, so beautiful with her expressive eyes dreamy with sleep. That still strikes him to the heart.

He tends to stare out the window and drink his coffee when he hears her footsteps on the stairs, to avoid more than a glance at her long smooth legs beneath her short, white silk robe that barely covers her sleepwear.

Red slides the baking tin beneath the broiler, not a true salamander but adequate to crisp the sugar glaze on his creme brulee.

There's a clink of bottles.

"Do you want scotch tonight?"

He'd drink an entire bottle if he were alone. But he can't risk the loss of self-control that would be sure to follow.

The way she watched him lick her fork, almost as if she knew what he was thinking.

Red tries not to touch Liz if he can avoid it. It's slowly been borne in upon him how desperately starved for human contact he is, now that he doesn't have anyone else distract him.

Sometimes the sight of her bare feet is enough to make him long to fall to the floor and kiss them. Beg her just to kick him or step on him, anything to feel her touch him.

If he starts touching her again, he's not sure he'll be able to stop.

"Just a glass," he calls back, lifting their dessert from the oven and shutting off the broiler.

If she pours them both drinks, then puts away the bottle, they both have agreed not to bring it out again.

"Here you go."

Liz strolls through into the kitchen, hands him his glass.

"Cheers." 

She raises her glass, clinks it with his.

He can see the flicker of firelight behind her, the book waiting on the couch. A thick cashmere blanket is folded and ready on the side where she usually sits.

Red has already washed the dinner dishes, and he cleans up as he cooks. So there's nothing else to do here.

"Red?"

"To you."

Her eyes darken. He should have just said 'cheers.'

"No, to you, Red, for a wonderful meal."

He clinks glasses with her again, not knowing what to say. She didn't enjoy the food, but the way she's looking at him is beyond significant.

Liz gives a little shrug, her mouth turning down in disappointment.

"Let's read for a little before we eat that."

She gives the creme brulee a smile, then turns to lead the way to the couch. She's wearing yoga pants tonight, and Red watches her walk for a few steps before hurrying to follow her. He's managed to put a few pounds on her, and the effect is delightful.

He's going to have a terrible time sleeping tonight. He just knows it.


	6. Out of the Bath

Liz finishes her bath and towels her hair dry, then stands naked before the steamy mirror. 

Is she too young for him? Not his type? 

Or is his restraint some form of misguided nobility, because she's completely at his mercy, cut off from everyone she knows?

The bruises from Tom's hands and mouth have disappeared by now. Liz turns, looking over her shoulder and wondering if the few pounds she's gained are only the start. She needs to exercise more in addition to her yoga, perhaps join Red on some of his early morning walks in the mountains.

She can't afford to get soft or weak.

Red does calisthenics in his room, grumbles about the lack of opportunities for target practice.

He's right next door. Probably in bed, probably not asleep yet.

She's never been inside his room, although the first few nights, Red saw her to her bedroom door, even gave her a quick embrace goodnight.

Liz isn't sure why he stopped. Perhaps it was her habit of taking late night baths. 

Is it possible that he, too, has been finding himself more attracted as a result of their ongoing proximity? Or is she just kidding herself?

Red seems more buttoned down now than when they first fled together, an odd mixture of familiarity due to the routines of daily living, and impersonal warmth that holds her at a distance. But his eyes? Sometimes his eyes linger.

She should just go to bed.

Liz looks at her nightgown, then the robe hanging on the hook next to it.

Waiting another day, another week, won't make this any easier. If he rejects her, she can make her peace with that. She doesn't have any choice. Not if she wants to live.

Better to find out now.

Liz puts on the robe, leaves her nightgown hanging.


	7. Red's Room

"Come in."

Sitting up a little straighter against the padded headboard of his bed, Red opens the fortunately large hardback novel from his bedside table to a random page and lays it spine up on his lap. He holds the sides of the book's cover as if he was reading and just put it down.

Liz enters cautiously, leaving the door standing open behind her. The hall at the top of the stairs is dark and still.

"Yes, Lizzie?"

Her damp hair is plastered close to her head. Her eyes look enormous. Red avoids more than a glance at the way her white silk robe clings to her curves, her nightgown hidden beneath it.

She approaches the bed, sits down with a little bounce that causes the neckline of her robe to gape open.

His thoughts slow to a crawl. She's not wearing a nightgown. He's extremely grateful he's still wearing his pajama top, even though the matching pants are wadded somewhere below the covers.

"Red, you told me Dembe hasn't even hired all the lab staff he needs yet."

Communication is necessarily very limited, but each week at least one letter arrives with their box of food. Mr. Kaplan has suggested they start over in China, or in India.

Liz lays her hand on his lower leg, hard enough that Red can feel the weight of it through the many layers of blankets he prefers.

"We could be here for more than three to six months."

She swallows, the line of her neck drawing his eyes lower once again. Her body is still slightly damp, the robe all but translucent.

Red can barely breathe.

This isn't what he thinks it is. It can't be.

Liz gives the top of his shin a slow rub, then her hand moves to his knee, cupping it gently. 

"Red?"

He feels his name hang in the air between them. Liz expects him to speak. He tries to collect his thoughts, come up with something encouraging but not humiliating. In case he's wrong.

She laughs suddenly, her eyes sparkling, and for a second Red is terrified that this has all been some sort of a tease. 

Then her hand settles on his thigh, her thumb rubbing with clear intent.

"Red, your book is upside down," Liz tells him.


	8. Red's Bed

Liz watches Red's mouth move with a delicate sort of fascination, licks her lips at the brief flash of his teeth, her thumb still stroking the top of his thigh.

Very slowly, she reaches over and lifts up the book, savoring the expression on his face as she glances down at the shape of him beneath the covers, then back up into his eyes, her smile widening.

Oh yes. He was doing exactly what she imagined, has been imagining in the bath every night for the past week.

"Lizzie." His voice is so deep.

She sets the book on the nightstand, reaches for the belt of her robe, her hand on his thigh moving higher.

"Take off your clothes," she tells him, undoing the belt but holding the front of the robe closed. "All of them."

She wants, no, she needs the touch of his bare skin.

Red unbuttons the top button, then pulls the pajama top off over his head and throws it past her to the floor. She catches a brief glimpse of his back, the scars Ressler has described, but she's never seen. 

"That's all." He's not smiling, his lips trembling a little. "Now your turn."

Liz lets the robe fall open, shrugs out of the sleeves.

She watches his face as Red stares at her, his hands drawing tight into fists, then releasing as she runs her fingers over him through the blankets for the very first time.

She's ready for him. She's been achingly ready since she watched him licking her fork.

Liz peels back the bedding, eyes him for a moment before leaning up onto her knees and fitting herself against him, allowing her breasts to brush his face before reaching between them to position him with one hand, then lowering herself down onto him without mercy.

His arms, his hands come around her at last, the touch of his fingers so light as he maps the line of her spine, the crease of her hips as she rocks very slowly, enjoying the feeling of him inside her. 

"Slide down," he whispers against her mouth, his hands pushing at her hips. 

They move together, a little awkwardly, until his head rests on the bed. She rocks against him again. Deeper. Fuller. She can move up and down more easily now, her hands learning the curves of his chest and belly. Watching his face, his breathing, for what pleases him.

"Lizzie," he groans, his neck arching, head thrown back.

"Lift up," she answers him, pushing his pillow beneath his head. He breathes between his teeth, his lips drawn back, as if just those few random movements are straining his self-control to the utmost.

She moves again, savoring the expression on his face, so close to pain as to be practically indistinguishable.

"Red," she whispers. "Red, we have months."

Liz waits until his eyes focus enough that she knows he's heard her, then she leans closer.

"Every night, for months."

Then she starts to move harder, faster, ignoring the way his hands clutch at her hips, the roar she rips from his throat.

The way his whole body moves convulsively as he tries and fails to resist her urging.

How could she have waited three weeks for this?

Liz has never seen anything more beautiful than Red as he comes completely undone beneath her, mask shattered, calling her name again and again.


	9. On a Walk

By mutual agreement, her bedroom is abandoned for his. Red carries coffee to her in bed every morning, just as she brings hot tea or a snifter of cognac to their bedside for him to drink while she bathes before bed.

She's decided not to join him on his morning walks. They spend so much time together every day.

Instead, Liz walks in the late afternoon, while he prepares dinner. Always in the direction of the mountains, never towards the main house. Usually for an hour more.

Until the day she gets no more than five minutes from the chalet, and realizes she's forgotten her water bottle.

"No, you'll have to wait until I decide that it's safe. Then I'll bring her to you."

Red is talking on one of the burner cells he cautioned her never to use except in case of emergency. Dembe's number is programmed into each of them. She flattens herself against the kitchen wall, listening.

"No, you can't speak with her. If she wanted to talk to you, Tom, she would have called you."

Liz feels her heart start hammering so hard she's sure Red will hear it as well. She presses her head against the wall, listening as hard as she can. Red's voice rises and fades, as though he's pacing the room beyond.

"You need to keep a civil tone or I will stop answering your calls."

There are a few moments of silence, and then a clatter, as if Red tossed the phone on a table.

Liz tiptoes backwards, then lets herself silently out of the house.

She intends just to walk back up the trail, but instead she finds herself running, tears streaking her face. She's exhausted and panting when she finally stops, and she still doesn't have her water bottle.

The thought never occurred to her that what she and Red are doing is only temporary. That their apparent relationship is just a product of their isolation.

That Red intends to pass her back to Tom once her name is cleared.

She was the one who approached him. She can't blame Red for accepting what she offered.

Liz sits down abruptly on the ground and sobs, her head on her knees.

She wanted Red to love her, the way she loves him. But they've never spoken those words to each other. 

She never asked him for his love. She's just always assumed, so carelessly, foolishly, that she already had it.

She deserves it, that he wants to send her back to Tom.


	10. Thinking about the Stairs

Red paces around the chalet, wanting a drink but knowing that one will only lead to the next.

He still has dinner to prepare before he starts drinking, or he'll have to eat Lizzie's cooking. He's been trying to teach her a few simple dishes, but she's not really interested in learning. She'd rather tease him by eating bites of whatever they're chopping or slicing in a seductive manner, tempting him until he surrenders and pleasures her wherever she suggests.

It's good that the Swiss build furniture the same way they do clocks and watches; properly, designed and engineered to last. Liz is wonderfully inventive - every room holds such intense memories already.

Last night, she promised him that she had a new idea about the stairs.

Red hates Tom Keen.

Not only has Tom survived far too many dangerous situations, his tone of voice when he calls Red increasingly borders on the insolent. As if he can somehow sense how much Red wants Liz, that he doesn't want to let her go.

Once they have their virology lab up and running, Red would very much enjoy designing a virus just for Tom. If only Liz wouldn't be the logical vector.

She'd never forgive him for that.

Red paces faster, trying to calm down at the thought of Liz returning to Tom's waiting arms. Once they're safe from the virus, whether she returns to Tom or not will be her choice. It has to be.

Soup. He'll make a nice rich soup, with the fresh bread already rising on the counter. Chopping all those vegetables, plus kneading the bread dough for its second rise, will hopefully calm him before Liz returns from her walk.

And then the stairs.


	11. Some Company

"Be right back down!"

Liz pushes open the front door and heads upstairs, not waiting for Red to respond. The house smells wonderful, the rich, complex scent of dinner on the stove teasing her nostrils as she races for the bathroom and locks herself safely inside.

Her face is a mess. Her eyes are red and her nose is running and her lips tremble as she stares into the small mirror above the sink, splashing cold water on her face and trying to compose herself.

She'll take a shower before dinner and hope that helps.

"Lizzie?"

Red raps on the bathroom door less than a minute after she starts the water running. It's not even hot yet.

His hand rattles the knob.

"Lizzie? Is something wrong?"

She always kisses him when she returns from her walk. Naked, Liz stares at the handle.

She needs to answer him somehow.

Wrapping herself in her towel, Liz unlocks the door and opens it just enough to reveal Red's worried face. He's wearing a long, dark red apron over a white, button down shirt rolled up to reveal his forearms, and a damp white dishtowel is slung over one shoulder.

"I'm going to take a shower, Red," she tells him. His face softens, then he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair back behind her ear. Not commenting on the evidence of her tears that the cold water couldn't fully dispel.

"Would you like some company?" he offers, his fingers lingering at her earlobe, his eyes bright with desire.

"What about dinner?" she stalls, not opening the door any wider. His clever fingers feel so good, rubbing up the curve of her ear with the perfect amount of pressure.

"Done and cooling on the stove top," he responds. "So I'm yours to command." 

She bites her lip, trying not to cry at the tenderness in his deep voice.

Red tilts his head slightly. "If you want me?"

Liz can't resist that wistful smile, the slight note of uncertainty in his voice.

She opens the door wide.

"Come on in before I run out of hot water, then."

Blinking hard, Liz turns her back on him and hangs her towel on its hook, then steps up into the tub and under the spray.

She needs to ask him about Tom. She can't bear not to.


	12. Shower Talk

Red undresses and hangs his clothing on the hook on the back of the door.

Liz was crying. The signs are unmistakable. 

Was it something he said or did?

He pauses with his hand on the shower curtain, prepared to step into the tub. Red can't think of a moment in the last few weeks that was less than perfect.

They've teased each other, but never really argued. 

It must be something else. But what could have triggered such despair? Is it just the isolation, the lack of any meaningful work? Red is sometimes frustrated by his current inability to act, but he's had long years to learn patience, value the long game.

He's been so careful not to embarrass Liz with his deeper feelings. To keep things light, and passionate, and playful.

Red hopes like hell she's not crying because she misses Tom Keen. But if he has to comfort her through that, he will. Because love is about the person in front of you, not the person you might wish they could be.

No longer aroused at all, Red gives his naked body a wry look, then steps into the water, holding his arms open as Liz turns at once into his embrace, water streaming down her body, turning her dark hair to glistening rivulets.

She rubs her wet face against his chest, her hands moving lightly up and down his back, as if ensuring that each scar is still in its proper place, before settling at his waist. 

"Red?" she murmurs against his chest. Her body smells of soap, but she hasn't washed her hair yet. 

"Yes, Lizzie?"

He rubs the base of her spine comfortingly, holding their lower bodies pressed together as she leans back and squints up at him, the water falling endlessly between them.

"I need to ask you something, and I need you to give me the dignity of a 'yes', or a 'no' answer to my question."

The water seems colder all at once, although the temperature hasn't changed.

"You know there are things I won't tell you," Red warns her. "Information that would put you in unacceptable danger." He's dismantled all his defenses for her, separated himself from all his resources. Bared his body to her as fully as he long ago relinquished his heart.

Liz nods, her blue eyes so wide, water glistening on the curl of her dark lashes.

"Red, once the virus is no longer an issue, do you want me to go back to Tom?"

That phone call. Was she crying because he lied to Tom? Because she misses him?

Red blinks at her, repeating the question in his mind.

Of course he doesn't want her to go back to Tom. He never wants her to see Tom Keen again.

But Liz owes Red her life. What question is she really asking him? Why is she offering to go back to Tom, as if that would somehow benefit Red? 

If he answers in the affirmative, will it free her from some obligation she feels to Red, some burden?

The water pours down over them as he tries to decide on an answer.


	13. Reticent

The hesitation on Red's face, the twist of his mobile lips as if her question and his own answer are bitter on his tongue.

"No," he says, finally, the lines at the corners of his mouth deeper as his lips curl in a sour smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He steps back a little, his hands at her back sliding to rest at her hips. The water falls between them, darkening his body hair and filling the bathroom with steam.

Red is just staring at her, as if waiting for some response. She owes him an apology for deliberately eavesdropping. Can she trust his answer, in the light of what she heard him say to Tom?

The ease and intimacy of the past few weeks seems to have vanished. She feels her tears welling up again, not so much sad as furious, unwilling to lose him, to lose what they had.

"Then why did you say that on the phone?" she asks him finally, her eyes searching his face.

He shrugs, then purses his lips as if holding back some confession. There are times when his reticence seems charming, but this isn't one of them.

Very slowly his fingers move from her hips to trace her ribs in small circles, then forward to her breasts, gliding with the lightest of touches over her nipples, again and again.

Not enough pressure to arouse her, his touch somehow a message, if she can just manage to decode it.

"Red." Liz reaches for his hands, holds them unmoving against her breasts. Steps a little closer to allow the water to pour down her chest. He seems to have come to the end of his words, his face pinched, his eyelashes fluttering. But he's listening carefully, she's sure of that. "I'm not ever going back to Tom. So if you send me away ..."

Her words break off as Red pulls her to him, kisses her greedily, almost desperately beneath the full force of the hot water.

"Lizzie," he says between kisses, "Oh, Lizzie."


	14. Jewelry

They eat stew with bread and butter by candlelight, sharing a full bottle of red wine as they linger, Red reaching out across the table to hold her hand again and again.

He's buttoned up his shirt and donned his slacks, having previously expressed his strong feelings on the subject of proper dinner attire, but his feet are bare, and he stretches one foot out occasionally to caress her ankles with his toes.

Liz is wearing a short black evening dress, without jewelry. Someday he'd love to take her to the finest jewelers on each continent, festoon her like a Christmas tree. But she'd probably want to sell his gifts and send the money to feed orphans.

"Yes, Red?"

Her tone is amused, and he realizes he's been staring once again, and her wine glass is empty.

Red lifts the bottle and pours for her, then tops up his own glass.

"I was wondering about your taste in jewelry," he says, taking a sip of his wine, then leaning back slightly in his chair. His suit pants are tight at his waist; in the absence of a tailor, he's going to have to become more restrained in his eating habits.

"I like colored stones best," she responds. "Diamonds only as accents."

"But your engagement ring...?" he muses, not realizing what he's said until her smile disappears.

"Tom told me it was his grandmother's ring," she says softly.

That name, hanging like poison in the air between them once again.

"Red?" This time it's Liz who reaches out across the table, taking his hand and then tugging until he leans forward. Red watches in wonder as she carries his hand to her lips, slowly kisses each knuckle, then turns his palm up and presses her lips to the center of it.

She moves her lips to his wrists, looks up at him from beneath her lashes.

"Don't presume to compare yourself to him."

Red's heart seizes painfully for a moment, before she continues.

"You're so much more of a man, so perfect for me in every way..."

She gives his wrist a little flick of her tongue, then bats her eyelashes at him with a demure smile.

"Except, of course, that we're still not on the stairs ...?"

"No more time to digest first?" he parries, loving the way Liz at once shakes her head, releasing his hand and pushing her chair back to stand.

"Now, Red. I've been waiting all day to try this out." Her eyes laugh at him, but he can hear the excitement in her voice, and there's something about knowing she's been thinking about him all day, imagining him inside her, that turns his mouth dry and his nerves molten.

Whatever Liz has planned is probably acrobatic, most certainly exhausting. But she's worth it.


	15. Looking At Him

Liz wakes early and lies drowsing on her side, enjoying the warmth of Red curled behind her, one arm flung over her atop the covers. His hand rests possessively on her forearm, close to her breasts, and she admires his neatly kept nails, the sprinkle of hair on the backs of his fingers, the fine bones of his wrist.

The more Liz looks at him, the more she likes what she sees.

It isn't just that he's becoming more relaxed around her, dressing less formally and allowing her to see more of his body.

Liz has looked at this very same hand, this wrist, so many times before. She would have recognized his hands anywhere, the hands that kill for her, that have saved her so many times. She could have drawn a fairly accurate sketch of them in the first six months she knew him.

But now she savors them, seeing in every tiny detail of Red's physical self some new reflection of the man she loves.

The way his thumbs curve back, as if they long to stroke her, yet hesitate. She's seen that tension in Red so many times, seemingly unsure of his welcome.

No matter how much she expresses her feelings with her body, without words.

Once the virus has been conquered, once they are free to leave, Liz has promised herself she'll tell him how she feels, and ask him what he wants from her in future.

Red clearly has strong physical needs, just as she does. Whether or not he reciprocates her deeper feelings, he may allow her to stay with him for a time. Or not. 

Passion can wear thin very quickly, although so far her desire for him seems to increase every day. And he's never told her no. That's a first for her; her previous lovers have quickly wearied of satisfying her needs, after an initial rush of excitement.

Liz squirms backwards slightly as Red's morning erection announces itself, his hand on her arm unmoving, still lax with sleep. Shifting his fingers to her breast, she reaches between her legs, fits him into place and then clenches down internally, letting out a soft little gasp of satisfaction as he fills her completely. 

He'll wake up inside her soon, but for this moment, he's unaware, subject to her will. Liz confines herself to the smallest of movements, rocking her hips from side to side, hoping he'll stay asleep a little while.

Unconscious like this, it's as if he's tied down or drugged, wholly subject to her pleasure. She hasn't asked him for that type of play yet, any more than she's offered to submit herself to him, only stretched her arms above her head once or twice, wrists pressed together, just to see what he would do.

"Lizzie." 

Red mumbles her name into her hair, bends his knees and buries himself a little deeper. Still allowing her to set the pace, to press herself back against him. Liz loves that he always calls her by name, never some anonymous endearment. Red knows he's in bed with her, always.


	16. Sleeping Beauty

Leaving Liz to sleep a little longer, Red pulls on a robe and starts dreamily downstairs to make them some coffee. Their embrace this morning was exquisite, so slow, so different from their gyrations on the stairs the previous evening.

Red pauses on the step where their bodies first joined, remembering the tangle of their legs, the way she turned this way and that, exploring how best to fit them together as he clung to the banister, trying to brace himself as she impaled herself again and again.

He never thought he'd meet a woman who could match his desires, not for weeks on end. For an evening, or a day or two, perhaps. 

But Lizzie seems to want him the way he wants her, like an alcoholic wants the bottle, or a drug addict the next fix. Red buried that needy part of himself for so long, feels it uncoiling now into the freedom and space she provides.

In the kitchen he sets water boiling, pours milk into a small pan to heat it for cafe au lait.

She's never told him no.

Red wonders what she would say, though, if he asked her to indulge one of his darker fantasies. There are so many practices in which he's rarely felt safe enough to indulge, his few experiments only whetting his appetite.

Carrying the tray with their coffee upstairs, he pauses at the sight of Liz lying on her back, covers down to her waist, apparently asleep. Her bare breasts bob softly as she breathes, nipples tightening beneath his gaze. Her hands are folded over her navel.

She's awake, pretending to be asleep. He's almost sure of that, certain as her nostrils twitch in response to the rich smell of the coffee. But her eyes don't open.

Red sets the tray on the dresser and tiptoes to the side of the bed.

"What have we here?" he murmurs, staring down at her breasts, then lowering his face until his lips almost touch her left nipple. "A woman asleep? Exposed to the gaze of a stranger?"

Liz lets out a little gasp, her eyelashes fluttering, then remaining closed. There's a tiny pulse beating at the base of her throat, and the tension rises within him, wanting to please her. Wanting to play the game she's inviting him to play.

Very delicately, he lifts the covers to peer at her lower body.

"A beautiful, naked woman," he whispers as if to himself. "So vulnerable. So unsuspecting."

Another gasp.

Red folds the covers back to the foot of the bed, exposing her fully. Her legs lie pressed together, her thighs trembling slightly.

"She's so deeply asleep," he says, moving quietly to the foot of the bed, "I'll just make her a little more comfortable."

Red leans forward and slides his hands beneath her knees, very gently lifting them and drawing them apart.

"Lovely," he murmurs, "Now I can see almost all of you."

He returns to the side of the bed, enjoying the swift rise and fall of her chest, the flush spreading from her face down her neck.

Encircling her wrists with his fingers, he delicately lifts her arms up and over her head, folding them against the headboard and then leaning down to breathe on her navel.

"Now that all your charms are exposed to me, I wonder if I might touch you without waking you?"

Her breaths deepen, the toned muscles of her stomach tightening. He breathes out against her again, watches her shiver.

"You don't know how or where I will touch you, sleeping beauty, now do you?" he whispers.


	17. Who Is She?

Liz palms the top phone from the stack in the drawer, and tucks it into her jacket pocket in one smooth motion. Red told her he would stop accepting Tom's calls, but that's not sufficient for her.

She doesn't want Tom, or Jacob, or whatever name he's calling himself now, to have any doubts that she's finished with him. That she never wants to see him again.

The games she and Red are playing now demand increasing levels of intimacy and trust. 

The mere thought of Tom can sour a perfect moment.

Liz hikes up the mountainside until the chalet vanishes completely, then sits down on a sun warmed boulder and pulls out the phone. Two numbers in the call history, one listed as Dembe, the other unsaved, just a number.

She collects her thoughts before placing the call. Her instructions need to be brief, and to the point.

No more calls, no more contact. Tom doesn't need to know that she's fallen for Red in order to believe she's not planning to see him ever again. Her life is upside down. Tom doesn't have the resources to protect her.

Liz dials, hears the phone ring twice.

A woman's voice answers.

"Hello Raymond! How wonderful to hear from you again so soon."

A sultry voice with an Austrian accent, fairly oozing charm. She sounds like a smoker, her heavy breathing making it clear that she's holding her phone very close to her lips.

"Darling? Can you hear me?"

Liz stares at the phone, then takes a deep breath and exhales it in her best imitation of one of Red's little huffs.

"What are you up to now, you naughty, naughty man?"

The insinuation is clear, and Liz hangs up the phone at once. Then stares at it, marshaling all her self-control not to fling it down the mountainside.

Who is she, and what is the true nature of her relationship with Red? Was Red actually staying in touch with Tom because his plan was always to return to this unknown woman?

If there was some innocent reason for contacting her, why didn't Red say anything about the call?


	18. Women

Liz lets herself into the kitchen at sunset to find it redolent of a rich beef stew cooling on the stove top. An open bottle of red wine and two glasses stand ready on the table.

She can hear Red moving around upstairs, and for a second she contemplates leaving the phone on the table like a message and hiking back up the mountain. But it's too cold for comfort outdoors already, and the familiar warmth of their shared space calls to her. 

Liz wishes she had never touched that phone. The woman tried to call back at least twice, but she put the ringer on vibrate and tried to ignore it bouncing around in her coat pocket.

"Lizzie?"

All too soon Red comes pattering down the stairs, wearing a blue pinstriped shirt untucked over jeans. His feet are bare and he's just shaved, his jawline smooth as the top of his head. He pauses in the doorway, clearly aware that she's upset even though Liz is looking down as she carefully pours wine into their glasses.

Her hands are shaking slightly.

Of course he can tell something is wrong.

She hasn't even removed her coat.

Liz hands him his glass, holds her own with both hands like a barrier in front of her. She takes a sip of wine and swallows, looking down into the glass.

Then she reaches with one hand into her pocket and pulls out the phone.

"Who is she, Red?" she asks him, meeting his eyes with every ounce of courage she can summon.

He takes the phone and sips at his wine as he flips it open, examines the number, then closes it again. Obviously stalling to think.

"Nina." His voice is dry, his lips turning down at the corners before he takes another slow sip of his wine.

"And what is she?"

Red raises his brows, but Liz just stares back at him. If he pretends not to understand her question, things will get very unpleasant.

"An old acquaintance." 

He takes another sip of wine, gives a deliberately casual shrug. She can see the tension in his neck, though, and hear it in his voice.

Red isn't making this easy, but at least he's answering her questions.

"Why did you call her?"

Faint color appears at the base of his throat, so briefly she almost misses it. Liz knows every inch of his body now, the way his skin looks when he's joyful, in pain, sound asleep. She loves to secretively pull aside the sheets and watch him sleep, or turn up the heat in the middle of the night until he flings off the covers and bares his naked body to her gaze.

"We had plans to meet. Plans established before you shot Connelly." He takes another sip of his wine, but seems to be having trouble swallowing it. Liz waits, watching him twisting the stem of his wine glass, swirling the dregs in his glass.

"Here."

She lifts the bottle, refills his glass.

"Thank you, Lizzie."

She knows his gratitude is not only for the wine. She isn't yelling, crying, breaking things. At least, not yet.

Red takes a deep swallow, then sighs.

"I informed her, in the most flattering way I could manage, that our plans would have to be ... delayed."

His teeth worry briefly at his bottom lip. She watches his mouth, feeling the tears beginning to well at the back of her eyes, determined not to let them fall.

"I can't alienate Nina right now. Not while we're trapped here."

Liz takes another sip of her wine.

"Why not, Red?"

"She's one of my key contacts in Austria. Very wealthy, very influential."

"And your lover."

Liz hears the flat tone in her voice but she can't take that word back.

What she and Red have been doing together? They haven't labeled it at all. 

"She was. Yes." Red reaches over, touches Liz very lightly on her upper arm. "Lizzie? Look at me?"

She looks up, and his green eyes glisten beneath his brows, drawn together in a frown.

"If you want a list of all the women I've been intimate with before I met you, before we arrived here, we'll be talking all night."

Her eyes widen involuntarily, and he gives a little shake of his head, a rueful smile.

"If you want a detailed description of my history and my relationship with each of them, that is."

She clutches her wine glass so tightly she's afraid the slender glass stem will snap between her fingers.

"You'd tell me about them?" she whispers, not sure if this is an offer, or just a conversational gambit.

Red nods, chewing at the inside of one cheek as he holds her gaze.

"They're my past, Lizzie." He swallows audibly. "And you, I hope, are my future."


	19. Jealous

Red stares at Liz, her cheeks bright, blue eyes glittering with tears, clutching her wine glass with one hand, her other hand making a fist, pressed to her stomach.

He never intended on anything this close to a declaration of love, not while they are trapped together by the threat of the virus.

But she's so clearly upset. So rightfully jealous.

No matter how much he wants to please Liz, Red owes it to Nina to end this phase of the relationship in person. 

Anything less would be an insult to what they've shared in the past, let alone the pointless risk it would present to their business connections, which he hopes can and will remain strong.

Before the virus, he could love Liz platonically, and satisfy his urges whenever he found himself with the time and space, or the business need, to indulge. Madeline Pratt was once his lover, and poor Luli. And so many other women, over the years, all the way back to his wedding night. He had been so innocent, unlike Naomi.

"You're the only reason I have a future," Liz responds at last. She bites at her lips, and he waits for the next question.

"You're offering me fidelity?" Her eyes search his.

"Yes." He gives her a firm nod. That, at least, he can promise her.

"But you're not asking that of me?"

It's like a punch to the gut, the thought of her with another man. The thought of her making love to him, and also wanting anyone else.

He's never been possessive, not since the failure of his marriage.

But Lizzie, oh Lizzie.

He values loyalty, above all else. If she tells him the truth, if she takes lovers only among his friends, never his enemies?

He's old enough to be her father. Of course she wants more than he has to offer, despite their apparent compatibility.

Red is still trying to form the words, to assent without lying, when she sets down her wine glass and steps forward, winding her arms around him and rubbing her face into the crook of his shoulder. He puts one arm around her, lifts his glass to his mouth and swallows the remainder of his wine. Then he sets down his glass as well, takes her face between his hands, and kisses and kisses her until she's breathing heavily, her eyes glazing over with desire, not tears.

"Yes, Red," she pants. "Yes, yes."

He maneuvers her against the wall and begins undressing her, feeling her hands busy with his clothing as well. He can always reheat their dinner.


	20. Sufficient for Tonight

They eat late and then retire to the couch, Liz sitting with her back against the padded arm, her legs covered in the soft cashmere blanket, Red sitting upright with her feet and a book in his lap, rubbing her toes as he reads to her. Sleepy and satisfied, she leans her head sideways against the back of the couch and watches him beneath her lashes.

She hasn't asked Red about his lovers yet. She needs to think about the catalog he's promised her, decide if she wants him to work his way forwards or backwards in time.

He pauses and looks over at her.

"Still awake?" His deep voice is so warm, so affectionate.

She smiles at him, wanting to tell him she loves him. She adores him. 

But he's never said those words to her.

Red wouldn't really want her to see other men, would he? Liz already knows that in the past, he has chosen intelligent, beautiful women around his own age as lovers. Does he assume that she wants or needs a younger man? She tilts her head, narrows her eyes as if by doing so she can somehow read his mind.

"Yes, Lizzie?" He looks mildly apprehensive.

"You never answered my question, earlier?"

"Which question?" He sounds guarded now, licking his lips as if preparing for something to taste bad.

"Do you want me to be faithful to you, as well? Once we leave here?"

He blinks at her, looks down at the open book on his lap, then back up.

"Red?"

Liz is almost afraid of what he's going to say next.

"I want what you want. I'd rather share you, than lose you." 

The words come out in something of a rush; he looks positively sick as he presses his lips together, as if trying not to say anything further.

She thought to provoke him into some declaration of desire, or jealousy, or possessiveness. Not to trample his pride.

He looks almost frightened as she stares at him.

All she can give him in return is the truth. Her own pride means nothing when he's hurting so badly right here in front of her.

"That's exactly how I feel about you, Red." She swallows, wishing she were closer, in the circle of his embrace. Even better, in bed, with him inside her. "I'll do what it takes, to keep you."

She shivers, then presses on.

"I only want you, Red, too, but if you wanted to see me with other men ...."

He's in sudden motion now, the book falling to the floor as he lunges forward and catches her in his arms.

"Don't ever say that, Lizzie. Don't ever think that."

She feels raw all over, her heart aching, and she wants his skin, she wants to shower and press her body to his in bed, she wants to cry in his arms until she sleeps.

"It's not healthy, is it, how badly I want you?" she tries to joke, yielding to his almost frantic kisses.

Red pauses, draws back and then sets his forehead to hers.

"We don't have to be healthy, Lizzie. We just need to be together."

And that, for tonight, is sufficient.


	21. Finished

"Wake up, Lizzie! It's finished!"

Liz rolls from her stomach to her side and stares blearily up at Red.

"The honey bread?" she asks him, looking around in vain for a plate or at least a cup of coffee. The light filtering into their bedroom is pale orange, so it's just after dawn.

"The vaccine, Lizzie!"

Red seats himself on the side of the bed and leans down to take both side of her face between his hands, kissing her full on the mouth then grinning happily at her as she awakens further to return his kiss. His mouth tastes like coffee and cream, and the faintest hit of stubble traces the line of his jaw. He hasn't showered or shaved, yet.

She blinks up at him, trying to smile.

"So we're going to India?" she manages, stifling a yawn.

She doesn't want to go to India. She wants honey cake, and a long lazy day in bed, learning more about Red's former lovers. Some of them had some very useful ideas.

"No, that's the best thing. We're going to Vienna - Mr. Kaplan will meet us there."

Liz is suddenly very awake. Nina. He's looking forward to seeing Nina.

Red seems to be following her thoughts fairly accurately, because he bends down and kisses her again.

"You will adore Austria. Don't you want me to show you the world?"

Liz yawns again and rolls over onto her back, feeling more tired in the face of his excitement.

"Can't we see Austria last?" she protests.

Red chuckles, then his face turns serious. 

"Lizzie, there are many good reasons to complete my negotiations with Nina."

He looks so earnest, sitting there in his robe, looking down at her. Liz parts her lips slightly, and he leans down and kisses her again, such delicious kisses. She can't get over how responsive he is.

"What do you plan to tell her? Sorry, you've been replaced?" she asks him as he stretches himself out atop the bedclothes beside her, then props himself up on one elbow to caress her face.

"She doesn't need to know anything about you," Red responds, his green eyes narrowing as if he's choosing his words carefully. "There would be certain repercussions ..."

He breaks off, and Liz nips playfully at his forefinger, which is tracing the line of her lips.

"You plan to hide me away somewhere?"

He grins at her, showing his teeth.

"Bite me and I'll bite you back," he warns her. Liz narrows her eyes back at him in challenge. He's trying to distract her, and he's succeeding.

"Don't want anyone to know about me? About us?" she persists.

Red shrugs, licks his lips. Clearly reluctant to talk.


	22. No Longer Needed

He needs to allow Liz to have some hand in this choice. He has made so many decisions for her, for them both, over the years.

Revealing her as his lover ... Red's mind balks at imagining more. His wife? His partner in crime? 

How many targets can be painted on her small, slim body?

"I don't think we'll be able to hide this for very long," she points out, giving his wandering forefinger a kiss and reaching out to trace his hairline with her nails.

"This?" Red stalls.

"This," she responds, pulling his face close for another long, open-mouthed kiss, that leaves them both a little dreamy-eyed.

He swallows the bitter fear that lurks beneath this conversation.

"We've chased blacklisters together for two years," he says softly. "We could maintain that working relationship in public, and keep ... this ... behind closed doors."

Liz gives a little shake of her head. They are lying so close together on the bed that her hair brushes his face.

"We'd have to wear sunglasses even at night, or they could tell from our eyes," she protests with a smile, biting at her lower lip in a way informs him exactly what she's thinking.

"It would be much safer," he cautions her, bending his lips to hers for a kiss that is almost a bite. He wants to growl at her, pull aside the sheets that separate them, clutch at her soft skin.

"We couldn't even sleep in the same room every night," she responds at once, her voice firmer. "Red, I'm not going to go sneaking around like a teenager, like I'm embarrassed to be seen with you."

Red can't help the internal flinch of pain at that, hopefully disguised by another kiss.

No such luck.

"You're not embarrassed about me, are you?" Liz pulls her face back just enough that he knows better than to attempt another kiss. How could she even think that? 

"No, Lizzie, I just want you to think this through very carefully."

The tense lines at the corners of her mouth dissolve.

"Already done." She leans forward and gives him another deep kiss as a reward. "So we're the new power couple, and I'll thank Nina for her kind efforts on your behalf, which will no longer be needed?"


	23. Yes

Liz watches the play of thoughts flicker across Red's expressive face. He's less guarded with her now, as if the give and take of their lovemaking has finally translated itself into their less physical interactions.

"So, how much power do you want?" he murmurs at last.

Good question. 

"Enough to keep you safe?" she ventures, watching his eyes narrow. "As much as you can share without putting yourself at risk?"

Red sighs.

"You would need intensive RTI training. I owe that to my people."

The thought of it sickens her, but she nods. She won't be a liability. Resistance to interrogation was taught in theory at Quantico, but not in practice.

"You'll need to start learning new languages."

Liz can read in several languages she would never attempt to speak. 

"I'd like to shadow you," she tells him, "When you think I'm ready."

He nods again, his gaze turned inward.

Liz lies at his side, feeling the distance between them expand and contract. Beneath his robe, she knows the exact curve of his hip, the feel of his ribs as her fingers fit themselves to his side. Now she wants more.

She's asking for a level of intimacy that will allow her to witness Red's operations, his command structure, from the inside. To be able to pull the strings he pulls.

To become, someday, his equal.

She knows the exact moment he realizes why.

Her fingers are softly rubbing his hip through his robe, she's watching his mouth twitch, his sensitive lips moving as he works through the implications.

Red swallows, and she watches the knowledge in his eyes set his lips to a thin line.

"You assume we'll stay together."

"Yes, Red. I do."

That twenty years between them. Red can call himself 'old and somewhat decrepit' if he wants. Liz never will.

And yet the time will come when she may need to be in control.

"When I was mountain climbing in Tibet, a wise old Sherpa told me that the climb to the summit is only one third of the trek."

Liz smiles an invitation at Red, and he leans over to kiss her once more before continuing.

"The descent is also a third. And then there is the inner journey, back to the world. In which one assimilates the mountain, and yet goes on with daily life."

"He didn't say 'assimilates'," Liz protests. She can see Red in the Himalayas, squinting against bright sun reflecting off snow, looking upwards, measuring himself against the mountain.

Red gives a slow shake of his head.

"No, he said 'the mountain is inside you, now.' And he tapped my chest."

He reaches out and touches Liz just below the base of her throat, then taps several times. Such a tender touch, as if he's transmitting something to her.

She blinks at him, suddenly shy.

"Yes, it is," she assents. "It always will be."

The corners of his eyes crinkle in wonder.

Then he pulls her close, heedless of the sheet between them, and she surrenders to his kisses, at last ready to leave this isolation. Together.


End file.
